


Brief Lives

by Heruhousu



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII, Post-DoC - Fandom
Genre: Discrimination, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:20:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7621756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heruhousu/pseuds/Heruhousu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An excerpt of life for Soldier and (almost) Soldier in a society reeling from the effects of Deepground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brief Lives

Their waitress is visibly nervous, twisting her apron in her delicate hands as she takes Cloud’s order. When it’s Genesis’ turn, she refuses to make eye contact, instead focused on the menu in his hand. She’s right, he observes wryly, to perceive him as the more threatening of the two.

This is the sole occasion in recent memory where Genesis’ charms (an outrageous compliment or two; a fleeting, yet devastating smile) would prove pointless. Unlike Cloud, Genesis doesn’t feel the need to maintain any sense of propriety in the face of aversion, no matter how passive. It’s hardly their responsibility to _pacify_ the general public. 

This sidewalk cafe, only a block from Seventh Heaven, is bustling in the mid day rush. Even with other tables to tend to, she spends more time inside in the kitchen than a waitress should, peering out from the little square window often to see if they’ve given up on waiting and decided to just go without and leave. 

Genesis was well acquainted with this fear; he’d recognize it anywhere. There was once a time where he thrived off the power his eyes afforded him. Another life, another world. How predictably the tables have turned, however even he hadn’t fully anticipated the results. Victory, in his experience, more often bred hatred rather than fear.

Eventually their waitress returns with their drinks, lacquered tray balanced in hand, both Cloud’s water and Genesis’ tea cup chattering perilously in its saucer, so much so that he takes it from her prematurely, fearing for his cashmere sweater in a sort of preemptive irritation.

Normally he’d wonder - primarily out of concern, yet somewhat curiously - about the effect this type of interaction had on Cloud, forever too proud to admit being sensitive to such a thing. But Genesis knows better (better, he believes, than Cloud knows himself), and even now the answer was written on his face. Lips taut in frustration, the faintest hint of a crease had formed on his brow. Those eyes - this morning a bright, eager blue - now downcast. They drift, darting side to side of the grey linen tablecloth in his usual awkwardness. He hadn’t so much as touched his drink, condensation darkening the ring of fabric beneath the glass.

With the back of his hand Genesis pushes aside the potted succulent center of the table (a half-dead, pathetic attempt at ambiance) and reaches out to lay his hand on top of Cloud’s. Against his palm the fingers twitch, but after a moment settle, accepting the gesture of comfort.

It’s absurd this is even necessary, and the injustice of the situation strikes Genesis hard, igniting an anger he hadn’t felt in years. He squeezes the hand briefly, then takes up their pack of cigarettes from the table and taps two out, bringing both to his lips to light at once.

For Cloud smoking is occasional, a rare indulgence he allows himself only when Tifa isn’t present and without the children around to witness - not nearly as often as Genesis would like. With a flourish he presents one to Cloud, pale smoke twisting and rising between them. He takes it, shoulders heaving a sigh of relief as though he had been thinking of the same thing.


End file.
